


Stay

by moonjump05



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-21
Updated: 2014-10-21
Packaged: 2018-02-22 01:14:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2489030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonjump05/pseuds/moonjump05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She would be a dutiful lady wife in all ways save one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stay

Sansa returned to the pavilion, the heavy gray canvas not to her taste but practical for the blustery winter winds and snow. Even this far south of the North, snow piled high in drifts and the sun shone feebly when it made an appearance through the gray clouds.

All around her the Dragon Queen's host camped. Pavilions strung with the colors of the Vale and the North and various sundry houses. The plain had sprung up into a colorful town overnight, lit and warmed by countless cookfires, the smoke swirling high into the clear night. Further out, she knew, the dwellings became mere burlap tents while the men-at-arms slept with the horses and whores.

Her own pavilion was warm and dry when she went through the flap held open by Brienne. The big woman followed, helping her take off her cloak and calling for her maid, Gretchel, before stepping back out to her post. The maid appeared and took over her undressing, finally wrapping a warmed robe around her before bringing her a light late supper.

Sansa was nibbling on the dried fruit and crisped capon when her greatuncle Brynden came in, cold sluicing off of him and making the braziers flicker. He stepped over to the nearest one, warming his hands by the flame, "Bronze Yohn Royce has left with the Vale's forces for the van," he announced, "He only takes two thousand horse and six thousand foot, the rest will follow with the main force."

"He will surely lead them to victory," she said distractedly.

The Blackfish frowned and went to her, "I hear he goes to fetch back Harry Hardyng at behest of Queen Daenerys as well. What did Her Grace speak with you about?"

"She plans to strengthen her ties here with marriage," Sansa answered, "A joining between Harry and myself would tie the Vale and the North to her beyond all doubt."

"Even the Riverlands," he added, "If it came down to it."

_Marry Harry_? she had repeated stupidly. She felt the same dread as when Petyr planned it, those fateful autumn days before winter set in. She was already married, she had protested in vain, she didn't want to marry, she wanted to say.

Of course that didn't stop him. And she endured Harry the Heir, his fair face and randy jests. As Alayne, he was interested in only the place between her legs, and it was all she could do to keep him off of her. Petyr was the same, requesting of his dutiful daughter a kiss much more intimate than between family. His heavy minty breaths and his hands on her breasts, she shoved those memories aside.

When she returned to the Gates of the Moon as Sansa, Petyr was dead but Harry lived on to torment her. His bawdy boasting became contrived courtesies, his groping hands stayed. As Alayne she was worth no more than a roll in the hay, as Sansa she brought Winterfell with her.  _My claim_ , she thought,  _it always came down to my claim_...

Even Queen Daenerys saw most importantly her claim. She had set aside her marriage to Tyrion, only to marry her again, "She is the queen," she said, "I must needs obey her."

The Blackfish frowned, "That may be..."

He would never force her to marry, and she was grateful, "I survived Joffrey. Harry will not be a problem."

He shared a flagon of wine with her then left. Gretchel came back in and took the empty tray away, then came to bring more coals for the braziers. Sansa burrowed into a pile of furs, her robe covering her modesty and tried to sleep.

The night sounds of the camp were soothing, but her mind troubled and kept her awake long past the laughter and singing coming from outside. Even Gretchel was asleep, her snores loud as a man's.

She heard Brienne talking outside, her voice answered by the rasp of Sandor's. They would be changing shifts, her two sworn swords. Two different people she had never met, although both were big and ugly. She sometimes felt like Olenna Tyrell between Left and Right when standing next to them.

Brienne of Tarth had sworn herself to her on behalf of her lady mother, long dead now but the oath remained. She talked little, not of what happened to Renly Baratheon, her oath to Catelyn Stark, or her sword Oathkeeper.

Sandor Clegane has sworn himself to her on his own behalf. He told her it was because he was tired of the monks on the Quiet Isle, but he spoke of them without his usual vitriolic words. Then he said it was to stop his brother when Queen Cersei had sent him down the Kingsroad to kill her, fighting him in a trial by combat.

But still he stayed, now exchanging places with Brienne. Sansa stood up, wrapping her robe tight and taking a soft fur with her. Her feet were cold, but the thick rugs on the ground were not and she padded along them to the flap. She peered outside.

"What are you doing up still?" the good side of his face was towards her, but he turned, the burned side dimly lit by nearby campfires.

"I heard you talking to Brienne," she said.

"She was anxious to get to polishing that sword of hers," he continued wryly, his mouth twitching.

It wasn't really her sword, Sansa knew. But rather belonged to Ser Jaime Lannister the Kingslayer, "Queen Daenerys is still holding him hostage," she wouldn't kill him yet, not with Tommen still sitting on the Iron Throne and the Lannisters and Tyrells still supporting him.

"She needn't bother, without a hand he's next to useless."

He wouldn't have said that four moons ago, when his leg was still healing and he could only move awkwardly. Now though, only the faintest limp remained, "He never kept his promise to my lady mother," she replied, "Even though he had come to the Vale to stop his sister from harming me, he never did send me home."

"Little chance of that happening now," he leaned to one side, his hands on his swordbelt.

No, but she needn't his promise, "I will travel back to Winterfell once the Dornish forces reach King's Landing," Sansa said, "The queen has promised a full contingent to rally the loyal houses in the North."

"The little bird has talons," he muttered, then looked at her closely, "You should be inside, you're trembling."

It was freezing even with the furs wrapped around her, "Aren't you cold?" she asked, eyeing his rather drab woolen cloak over boiled leather and mail. He didn't have any plate armor, the thick metal not appropriate for the climate or company, "You may come in, if you like."

Sandor frowned just enough for her to tell but followed her inside nonetheless.

She could feel his eyes on her as she went further into the pavilion, so she busied herself arranging furs and a cushion on a nearby chair before sitting down herself. He glanced around rather awkwardly by the tent flap, "Where's your maid?"

"She's sleeping."

"The Blackfish?"

"He returned to his own pavilion," she answered.

"I shouldn't be here," he made to leave.

"No!" she sprang up, staying his hand at the flap with a touch, "Stay."

He didn't move, but he didn't sound very happy either, "You don't know what you're asking."

She shook her head, "Yes, I do," she protested, clutching the fur that was dropping over her shoulder with her other hand, "I'm not the little girl held hostage at the Red Keep anymore," she said softly.

"No," Sandor agreed, his voice harsh and gravely as ever, "Now you're Sansa Stark, heir to Winterfell and the Dragon Queen's ticket to the North."

She frowned, her hand dropping listlessly to her side. He saw her hesitation, a low growl of frustration escaping him before he turned away.

"I'm to marry Harold Hardyng," she blurted out, satisfied at his sudden stop, "Well, Arynn now. In a fortnight, he comes back from the van."

"Good for you."

"The queen has decreed it," she said to his back, trying to explain, "I never... I never  _wanted_ to marry him. Even when I was Alayne, I didn't want to, but..."

"But you must," he finished for her, "You need swords to claim Winterfell."

He was right, she knew. She had known from the beginning that she must needs trade her hand for swords. Even though, her heart sank at the thought.

Sandor turned and stared at her for a moment, his mouth twitched, "Go back to sleep, I'll be outside."

_No_ , her mind made up Sansa unclenched her fist, the heavy fur around her shoulders dropping with a dull thud to the thick rugs underneath her. The loss of warmth making her skin goosepimple from her toes to the back of her neck and everywhere inbetween. She still wore the robe though, and her nervous fingers untied the belt until it was just a single simple loose knot around her waist.

The neck of the robe opened up, revealing the inside curve of her breast. She reached one hand to push off the shoulder of the garment, but another larger and stronger stopped her.

She looked up at Sandor's disfigured face, so close he has hovering over her. The burns would never get better, his features never less fearsome, but his eyes- once wide and white and terrifying- were calmer now. The gray less like ominous thunderclouds and more like the strong solid stones of Winterfell.

The thought made her smile.

He frowned, one hand on her shoulder and then she reached up and kissed him. It was everything and nothing like that kiss the night of the Battle of the Blackwater, more dream than memory now. Or that kiss she gave him before he fought Ser Gregor, rushed and hurried and clumsy.

This was slower, more insistent. A kiss to relish, not to dread as he matched her lips with his own as best he could. He hadn't been drinking, she was glad as he deepened it, his tongue sweeping into her mouth. She grabbed the front of his cloak in her small hands and shut her eyes.

His hand on her shoulder slipped up to her jawline, the other mirroring as he pulled away. She looked up at him, confused and flushed, hands vainly trying to bring him back down to her.

"Sansa," he stroked her cheek gently, his voice a low moan. The sound went straight through her, sending her tummy into flutters.

"Stay," she said rather breathless, her big blue eyes boring into him.

That was all it took and he grabbed her firmly, his mouth capturing her own his large hands pulling her so close. Her chest pressed up against him, her hands fumbling at the brooch that fastened his cloak, finally dropping it as Sandor made a desperate sound deep in his throat when she sucked on what remained of his bottom lip.

He started backing her up towards the pile of furs that served as her bed, his presence alone enough to move her while his own hands removed leather and mail.

She sat down for a moment while he was still engrossed in pulling off his armor, her heart pounding a warm tingling between her thighs. Watching him, she grew anxious, her mind finally starting ro realize how big he was and how strong. It was a maiden's nerves, she knew for anticipation also spiked through her when she saw the hardness in his breeches, wondering what it would feel like, excitement knowing she would be finding out.

Down to a tunic, he joined her. His hands reached out for her, and she leaned towards him resting her hands on his shoulders while he went straight for her robe. He brushed her hair off her neck and collarbone, pulling back her garment to expose her breasts to the chill air.

Sansa felt goosepimples across her chest, saw her nipples red and wanting to be caressed. There was a long pause and she was about to look up when he ever so hesitantly brushed against her breast, his hands finally cupping her and playing with their heaviness.

He seemed so intent, she looked at him a sound of contentment rising out of her, so focused on the way she fit into his palms the way her nipples hardened under his touch. Then his mouth was on her, and she clutched at his head. One hand feeling the rough stubble of his cheek, the other the rough scars that covered him from temple to throat.

Hot and hard she ached, running her fingers along his head, keeping him at her bosom. His lips and teeth remained where they were, but his hands found the large opening of her robe. Sliding down to her navel and lower, he brushed against her firmly, his fingers finding her wetness.

_Oh_ , she breathed, her legs tightening around his hand as pleasure spiraled through her abdomen. This was better than anytime she had ever touched herself, those hesitant caresses when she was alone in her bed. Sandor's hands were large and unfamiliar, but when he circled that certain spot, " _Oh_!" she breathed out, her knuckles white from gripping the fabric of his tunic.

Pressing his face against her chest for a moment he sat up, his fingers pulling out of her wet. She was breathing heavily, her thighs weak under her.

Releasing his tunic, her hands rested lightly on his chest. She felt the warmth and hardness of his muscles, the rapid thundering of his own heart. But he wasn't going to wait for her to finish her unhurried exploring, and he reached into his breeches and pulled himself out, his manhood thick and glistening at the end.

A few hard strokes with the hand he had pleasured her with, his knuckles white around his girth. Sansa watched, rather wide eyed at the sight and at his deep moan.  _Would he finish himself_? she wondered before reaching out to him.

He stilled at her touch, her fingers timidly stroking. It lasted only a moment before he shook his head and pushed her down on the furs, looming over her. He caught her lips again, his kiss harsh like a bitter truth. She kissed him back, no honeyed lies could be as sweet.

Pressing into her, solid and heavy, Sandor wrestled the rest of her robe off, freeing her arms and uncovering her legs. She ran her hands up to his shoulders, gripping the tunic and pulling it over his head with a jerk.

He seemed somewhat surprised at her forcefulness and she flushed prettily at his single hard exhale, slipping her arms around him. There were other scars, but he was hot and muscled under her fingertips and she clutched at him, relishing the feel.

He ground into her, a buck of his hips against her hips, and she sighed into his chest. The musky smell of him was stronger now, overlapping the scent of her own excitement and the faint aroma of the furs underneath her and the glowing braziers.

It hurt when he entered her, as she knew it would, an uncomfortable stretching and fullness that she endured gladly knowing that it wasn't Joffrey or Petyr or Harry. She would have to marry Harry though, becoming his lady wife, dutiful in all ways save for one.

This one thing she would have for herself.

Straining against her, Sandor gripped her leg, the other hand curled up in her auburn hair. Turning her head, she lay her cheek on his burnt forearm, the vigorous thrusting making her grab him tightly. A pleasant ache starting to grow low in her abdomen.

It was over sooner than she would have thought, with his frantic pumping suddenly stopping and his fist tightening in her hair. Sansa embraced him as he slumped to the side, resting on his shoulder and listening to his heavy breathing quiet.

They couldn't stay like this, she knew wrapping her discarded robe loosely over the swell of her hip. She glanced up at him, his gaunt features brooding in the dim light. He played with a tendril of her hair before sitting up, "You've done it now," he muttered.

She sat up as well, "I know what I'm doing," she said softly, pulling the robe back over her.

"Do you?" he rasped out, tying his breeches and putting on his tunic, "You're playing a dangerous game here, little bird."

She frowned at him, must he be so awful? "You didn't stop me."

He paused at that, his mouth twitching before viciously yanking on his boots and mail.

She said something wrong, her stomach knotting, "I didn't want you to stop," she explained, following him across the pavilion to where his cloak lay rumbled on the rug, "I might have to marry Harry, but..." she lay a hand on his arm.

Stopping, Sandor turned back to her, shaking his head perhaps in exasperation or at her folly, "Little bird," he said, lightly touching her hair.

She smiled, "You may join me tomorrow at Queen Daenerys' feast. There's to be singers from across the Narrow Sea."

* * *

She married Harry in the sept amongst the queen's host, an alliance forged between the North and the Vale. Her family's direwolf was discarded and she was wrapped in the moon and falcon of house Arynn for all to see. It reminded her of her other wedding, and oddly enough of a night filled with green fire and song.

There was feasting and dancing and bedding, and then Harry left again for the van.

When her moonblood didn't come at the expected time, she smiled. Her happiness growing with each passing moon until Eddard was born, red and squalling. An Arynn in name, but Sansa thought he looked like a Stark.


End file.
